


Time Moves in One Direction...

by TheDragon



Series: Memory Is a Fickle Friend [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Immortal Merlin, M/M, Memory Loss, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDragon/pseuds/TheDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It’s funny</i>, Merlin thinks, <i>how easy it is to forget.</i></p><p>Just a few years ago, he’d easily have claimed that he’d never forget Arthur. Not his Arthur. Never. It would be impossible for Merlin to forget that his hair was the color of wheat before a harvest and how sunlight made it shine as though it was gold of the purest kind.</p><p><i>Just like his heart</i>, he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Moves in One Direction...

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, one and all, and welcome to my very first (posted) Merlin fanfic :D The plot is something I've been thinking about for some time now, and I've finally finished writing it. Hope you enjoy!

_It’s funny_ , Merlin thinks, _how easy it is to forget._

Just a few years ago, he’d easily have claimed that he’d never forget Arthur. Not _his_ Arthur. Never. It would be impossible for Merlin to forget that his hair was the color of wheat before a harvest and how sunlight made it shine as though it was gold of the purest kind.

 _Just like his heart_ , he thinks.

His eyes, on the other hand, were like a cloudless sky -  a vast expanse of blue to get lost in. And Merlin _had_ gotten lost in them. All the time.

When he and Arthur had laughed at an inside joke or when their eyes met during one of the many feasts that took place in Camelot over the years they’d known each other.

When they were lying in Arthur’s bed, tangled up in both the blood-red sheets and each other.

Now, he doesn’t have any of that. He still remembers Gwen, and her brown curls and kind eyes of the same color. He remembers Gaius. And Gwaine. And Lancelot and Leon and Percival and Elyan. He remembers them all almost perfectly, as if he’s seen them just days before, while it’s been at least three years since he let Camelot and saw them last..

But no Arthur.

He can’t recall what Arthur’s face looked like, nor how tall he was, nor the sound of his voice.

All he has is the _concept_ of Arthur.

It has been years since he’d died, and almost as many have passed since Merlin had last seen any of his friends, and yes, while he knows that forgetting some things is inevitable, he’d never imagined it happening this quickly.

Why can’t he remember?

Why is it only Arthur - the person most precious to him in this world and the next - that is disappearing? Why is everyone else staying?

~oOo~

It turns out that they're not. They all leave and is left without the memory of what his closest friends looked like. There’s no Gwen anymore - there’s no-one. Merlin is left alone in a world too large for him.

Years pass and the world changes.

With each passing year, Merlin’s memory fails him more.

Arthur is now completely gone. If Merlin had thought of him as a foreign concept before, now it seems as though Arthur and the life they shared in Camelot are all in Merlin’s head - just figments of his imagination.

It's as though Arthur had never existed. Even the dull pain Merlin had been feeling ever since that last day has faded.

One day, Merlin forgets entirely.

He spends years more in the world of the living. One century, then the next, and another after that - so many, that Merlin loses count.

He knows that he is waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. He knows that it is supposed to be important, but he didn’t know why.

He travels. He goes to Europe, to Asia; he even flies to Australia and the United States, but somehow, something always keeps calling him back - back to the United Kingdom, because that’s what it is being called now. Back where he supposes _home_ is.

Does he even _have_ a home anymore?

~oOo~

It is the twenty-first century now. Or so Merlin thinks. He isn’t all that sure anymore; can’t find it in himself to care about the passing of time, not when he is doomed to live forever.

It is raining today. It’s _always_ raining these days.

Merlin wonders whether he might have something to do with that.

He is sitting on a bench in a park. He has no umbrella or jacket. He doesn’t even have a sweater.

He sits there on the bench, his T-shirt getting more and more drenched by the second. His jeans are no better off, and his feet are literally swimming in his cheap, worn sneakers. Merlin leans his head back and closes his eyes. Drops of water fall from the sky and land on his face, sliding down his cheeks in streams. He is cold now. He should probably get up and leave, go back to the shoddy flat he is renting. It isn’t even all that far from here - just a few blocks.

He can’t do it. He can’t bring himself to move from where he is sitting.

Time passes. He listens to people hurrying along, their footfalls loud because of the puddles that are omnipresent.

Time passes, and he sits still. He can sit like this for all eternity and nothing will change. He’ll still be here. He won’t die of hunger or thirst or the cold. He’ll live through whatever the world decides to throw at him.

But it doesn’t mean that he wants to.

At first, he doesn’t notice when the rain stops; doesn’t see the shadow that falls over him.

“Let’s get you home,” the man holding an umbrella over his head says, reaching out his hand.

Merlin grabs onto it.

The man gives Merlin his coat and pulls him along. The leave the park, walk down a few streets, and eventually end up entering one of the most posh buildings he’s ever seen. They walk past an “out of order” sign in front of an elevator and up the stairs. Merlin stumbles a few times, not feeling his feet anymore because of the cold, but the man catches him and helps him along.

Eventually, they manage to make it to a door. The man opens it and pulls Merlin inside the flat. He’s sat down in one of the armchairs in the living room. He’s going to get it all wet, but Merlin can’t find it in himself to care.

“I’ll be right back,” the man says. Merlin nods, but keeps his gaze planted firmly on his feet.

The man does return, after a minute or two. He is holding two towels and a stack of fresh clothes.

 _Dry_ clothes.

“The bathroom’s that way,” he says, pulling Merlin up again and handing over the things he is holding. “Go take a shower to warm up.”

Merlin does.

When he gets out, he finds the man in the kitchen. He is making tea and sandwiches. Merlin can swear his stomach grumbles, but that is impossible. His body doesn’t function like everyone else’s - hasn’t in _years_ , not with the magic and the immortality

He stands in the doorway, not sure what to do.

He still feels cold.

Eventually, the man notices him there. Their eyes meet, and it seems that, for a few seconds, neither of them can tear their gaze away.

The man comes over to him and gently wraps his arms around Merlin. Merlin feels all of his muscles tense simultaneously, because here he is, being embraced by a complete stranger (who, granted, has been nothing but kind to him), but he soon finds himself inexplicably relaxing into the embrace.

“Gods, Merlin, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” the man whispers into his ear, but the words make no sense. Merlin frowns and pushes him away, taking a few small steps back to put some distance between them.

“Do I know you?” he asks. Because he doesn’t. He would _remember_ ever meeting this man, he is sure of it. He has hair the color of wheat and eyes as blue as a cloudless sky and-

The sound the man makes when he hears Merlin’s words is something between a laugh and a sob. He covers his eyes with his hand and tilts his head down. His other arm is wrapped around his torso, like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart.

“You don’t remember. Of _course_ you don’t remember. I’m such an _idiot_ ,” he says.

Merlin takes a hesitant step forwards.

“Who are you?” he asks the stranger, and at this point, it’s really starting to feel as though he should know. He has no idea why, but he should. This stranger knows his name when by all accounts he _shouldn’t_ and Merlin doesn’t know what’s going on.

Nor why his magic is suddenly filling his body, rushing back from wherever it had been hiding for all these centuries, and why it inexplicably wants to leap out and envelop the stranger in a cocoon of light and warmth.

Merlin finds that, after so much time, he can no longer control it and is completely powerless to stop it from acting.

He watches the stranger with no small amount of trepidation, because _really_ , how would he explain this, when by all accounts magic isn’t real? Maybe he’ll get lucky and the stranger will think this is all a dream.

What he absolutely does not expect, however, is for the stranger to relax the moment Merlin’s magic surrounds him, going so far as to remove his hand from his eyes. Their gazes meet again, and Merlin finds himself taking a few more steps back and glancing at the front door.

“Please, don’t go,” the man says, figuring out Merlin’s intentions. “I only just got you back.” Merlin hesitates. None of this situation is making any _sense_ and one part of him is telling him he should get out because the man knows about his magic - knows things he _shouldn’t_ , but another, one that is growing larger by the second, is telling him to stay.

So he stays.

“Who are you?” Merlin repeats himself, hardly recognizing his own voice because of how weak it sounds and how much it trembles.

“Arthur. My name is Arthur,” the man says in a rush, looking as though he wants nothing more than to envelop Merlin in another embrace to keep him here, but is holding himself back.

Merlin isn’t sure whether or not he’s happy about that.

“You know me?” Merlin asks, his eyes searching Arthur’s vivid sky blue ones, although it’s redundant seeing as the man - _Arthur_ \- obviously does. What Merlin doesn’t know is _how_.

“You’re my best friend,” Arthur answers, and Merlin frowns again.

“But I don’t know you,” he says, trying to explain to Arthur that what he’s saying is wrong. Arthur merely shakes his head. He moves his hand carefully in the direction of the kitchen table, as though Merlin is a skittish animal and any sudden movements will make him bolt.

Merlin thinks that, give the situation, it is entirely possible. He also thinks that Arthur would do whatever he could to stop him.

“Sit down with me?” he asks, and his voice is so hopeful that Merlin doesn’t have it in him to say no to him. He moves sit in the chair farthest away from where Arthur is standing, not once taking his eyes off him. Arthur, on the other hand, sits down in the chair nearest to the entrance to the kitchen, probably hoping to catch Merlin if he tries to run, and leaving the food and tea abandoned on the kitchen counter.

“Who are you?” Merlin asks again, feeling almost panicked with how much he needs to know the answer to his question. Why did his magic, after all these centuries, finally decide to return to him? Why _now_? Why did it happen after Arthur touched him?

He doesn’t understand.

“You knew me as King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot,” Arthur says. He grits his teeth when he sees the confused and dubious and slightly betrayed expression on Merlin’s face.

“I’m leaving,” Merlin states, glaring at him. He deserves better than these lies, better than some fabricated story. He’s not stupid enough to believe any of this. Still, he finds that even as he says the words, he doesn’t really mean them, but just needs a moment to himself and away from Arthur - if that’s even his name. Merlin tries to get up, but crashes back into the chair a moment later. His legs aren’t working as they should. He tries again, this time putting his hands on the table so that he can push himself up, but he can’t - he has no strength left.

“What have you done to me?” He demands, breathless. He’s scared now, but the moment he feels his magic start to fight against its restraints, he knows that this isn’t Arthur’s doing. His magic is suddenly fighting to get out, and the more Merlin pushes it back, the more his head swirls and pounds and he feels dizzy all of a sudden. He closes his eyes and presses his hand to them, and when he opens them again, Arthur is kneeling next to him, expression full of concern, and his hands are in the air between them as though he’s not sure where to put them.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks eventually. Merlin flinches away from him when Arthur reaches out to swipe away the hair that’s fallen in front of Merlin’s eyes (he really should cut it - it’s gotten a little too long) and pretends not to notice the hurt prominent on Arthur’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. They’re both silent for a moment, Merlin mostly because it feels like his head is going to explode at the slightest movement, before Arthur slowly gets up and turns away. He walks back over to the counter and finishes making the sandwiches. Merlin observes him warily. This situation feels wrong, somehow. He can’t quite put his finger on why, but Arthur shouldn’t be serving Merlin. He just… he shouldn’t.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Arthur finally brings the food over when Merlin is starting to feel a little bit better, but with each step that brings Arthur closer the pain strengthens. When he’s only a metre away, Merlin lets out a quiet whimper. He won’t let the magic out, though. He’s not going to be taken by surprise again; he won’t let it run wild and potentially destroy whatever is in the vicinity. He hasn’t been able to control it for such a long time that there’s no telling what havoc it could wreak.

“Let go, love,” Arthur says, and Merlin almost doesn’t hear him because of the sudden thrum of magic in his veins, pushing so hard to get out that Merlin has to dig his fingernails into his forearms and grit his teeth to keep from screaming.

“W-what?” he manages to ask.

“Your magic. Let it go. You’re only going to make it worse,” Arthur replies.

Something deep within him urges him to obey, and he slowly relinquishes his hold on his magic, letting out a shaky, terrified breath as he does. He’s instantly better, but it feels weird and he’s ready to beat his magic back the moment it inevitably does something bad.

Arthur is kneeling in front of him again, with his thumbs rubbing calming circles over the back of Merlin’s hands. Merlin shivers, but he doesn’t know why.

“How do you know about my magic?” Merlin asks. He’s never told anyone, not that he knows of, not that he _remembers_ , and it’s impossible for Arthur to have any idea about it.

Yet, he does.

“You told me about it.” Before Merlin can do little more than shake his head in denial, Arthur is speaking again. “Back in Camelot, over a millennium ago.”

“I…” He’s not sure what to reply to this, but he decides to go with whatever Arthur is saying, despite it still sounding unbelievable. Then again, he shouldn’t be one to talk, seeing as he has magic and is, as far as he knows, immortal.

“Then how are you still alive?” Merlin asks instead. “Are you like me?”

This time, it’s Arthur who seems confused.

“Like you? No, I died.” Then, his eyes widen as though in realization. “You’ve been alive, all this time?”

Merlin nods his head.

“You… I…” Arthur breaks off, drawing in a ragged breath and running his hand through his hair. He’s still looking at Merlin incredulously. “All this time…” he repeats, and this time he sounds sad.

Merlin turns away from him, removes one of his hands from Arthur’s grasp, and makes for one of the sandwiches. It’s the slightest bit out of reach, but before he can move forward, his magic grabs it for him, making it float right into his hand. Merlin stares at it as though he’d been burned. It’s going to take a while to get used to, after spending so much time without it.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” Arthur says. Merlin turn to look back at him, but Arthur is avoiding his gaze. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Once again, the situation seems wrong. Arthur shouldn’t be on his knees in front of Merlin. He shouldn’t be apologising. He’s supposed to always stand tall, proud as… _a king_.

Merlin drops the sandwich as he’s hit with a vision of Arthur standing in front of an army of men, dressed in chainmail and a with red cloak emblazoned with a gold dragon thrown over his shoulders.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks. His eyes are full of worry again, and Merlin, for whatever reasons he cannot understand, wants it gone.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just a little winded.” Arthur nods, but the concern doesn’t disappear. On a whim, Merlin leans closer to him and rests his forehead against Arthur’s. He closes his eyes.

It feels nice, like he should be used to doing this, like he’s done this before countless times.

He doesn’t know why he does what he does next. Maybe it’s because of his magic pushing at him to do something, _anything_ ; or maybe it’s because Arthur is the epitome of attractiveness and it really _has_ been too long.

Merlin leans forward, and his lips meet Arthur’s. At first, neither of them moves. Then, Arthur lets out an almost inaudible sob and surges forward, pressing against Merlin tightly. He wraps his arms around Merlin, one hand reaching up to bury itself in his hair, and the other pressing against the small of Merlin’s back. The position is awkward, but neither of them cares. Merlin’s arms rise as though of their own volition and wrap themselves around Arthur’s neck.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, until Arthur finally pulls away to catch his breath. Merlin puts his head on Arthur’s shoulder and attempts to do the same, but it’s hard because Arthur’s scent is assaulting his nostrils and his hair is tickling the side of Merlin’s neck and Merlin’s lips are still tingling from their kiss.

All of a sudden, it comes back to him. One memory after another brings itself to the forefront of his mind and _he remembers_.

 _Arthur_ . The King of Camelot. _His Arthur._

This is the same Arthur he’d held, all those centuries ago, as he lay dying. The same Arthur he’d loved for so much of his life.

The same Arthur he, up till this moment, had forgotten.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispers into the silence between them. Arthur runs one hand down Merlin’s side, and Merlin eases himself off the chair to kneel in front of him. “I forgot you. How could I ever have forgotten loving you?”

And why did he only just now remember? A thought hits him - something Gaius had told him once - Merlin remembers all of the tales he’s heard about True Love’s Kiss. He never thought any of them to be true, but here, with Arthur, he finds himself willing to believe the myths.

“I still love you,” he says, moving to sit on Arthur’s lap. Merlin winds his hands around Arthur’s torso, and oh _gods_ how could he ever have forgotten how _right_ this felt?

“That’s good,” Arthur says. His voice is wet with tears, and Merlin moves back so as to wipe them off with his thumbs. “Because I still love you, too.”

~oOo~

He’s lying under the sheets in Arthur’s bed, with Arthur’s arm curled almost possessively around his waist, his face buried in Merlin’s hair, and their legs entangled. It’s like Arthur never left, like this has been their whole life, and Merlin never spent all those centuries alone. All those years seem insignificant now that he has Arthur back, and he finds that he no longer cares about what happened during them - no longer remembers, because it doesn’t matter.

  
_It’s funny_ , Merlin thinks, _how easy it is to forget._

**Author's Note:**

> Now that that's over, I have one thing I'd like to say: I'm looking for a beta reader. If anyone is willing, could they please contact me?
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hoped you enjoyed it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tomorrow's Just Another Day (Time Moves In One Direction remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077467) by [sksdwrld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksdwrld/pseuds/sksdwrld)




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